Verses 1889-1896 Part 14

In Armod's house they burned Bisesa's dower, And killed her black bull Tor, and broke her wheel, And loosed her hair, as for the marriage-feast, With cries more loud than mourning for the dead.

Across the fields, from Armod's dwelling-place, We heard Bisesa weeping where she pa.s.sed To seek the Unlighted Shrine; the Red Horse neighed And followed her, and on the river-mint His hooves struck dead and heavy in our ears.

Out of the mists of evening, as the star Of Ao-Safai climbs through the black snow-blur To show the Pa.s.s is clear, Bisesa stepped Upon the great gray slope of mortised stone, The Causeway of Taman. The Red Horse neighed Behind her to the Unlighted Shrine -- then fled North to the Mountain where his stable lies.

They know who dared the anger of Taman, And watched that night above the clinging mists, Far up the hill, Bisesa's pa.s.sing in.

She set her hand upon the carven door, Fouled by a myriad bats, and black with time, Whereon is graved the Glory of Taman In letters older than the Ao-Safai; And twice she turned aside and twice she wept, Cast down upon the threshold, clamouring For him she loved -- the Man of Sixty Spears, And for her father, -- and the black bull Tor, Hers and her pride. Yea, twice she turned away Before the awful darkness of the door, And the great horror of the Wall of Man Where Man is made the plaything of Taman, An Eyeless Face that waits above and laughs.

But the third time she cried and put her palms Against the hewn stone leaves, and prayed Taman To spare Er-Heb and take her life for price.

They know who watched, the doors were rent apart And closed upon Bisesa, and the rain Broke like a flood across the Valley, washed The mist away; but louder than the rain The thunder of Taman filled men with fear.

Some say that from the Unlighted Shrine she cried For succour, very pitifully, thrice, And others that she sang and had no fear.

And some that there was neither song nor cry, But only thunder and the las.h.i.+ng rain.

Howbeit, in the morning men rose up, Perplexed with horror, crowding to the Shrine.

And when Er-Heb was gathered at the doors The Priests made lamentation and pa.s.sed in To a strange Temple and a G.o.d they feared But knew not.

From the crevices the gra.s.s Had thrust the altar-slabs apart, the walls Were gray with stains unclean, the roof-beams swelled With many-coloured growth of rottenness, And lichen veiled the Image of Taman In leprosy. The Basin of the Blood Above the altar held the morning sun: A winking ruby on its heart: below, Face hid in hands, the maid Bisesa lay.

Er-Heb beyond the Hills of Ao-Safai Bears witness to the truth, and Ao-Safai Hath told the men of Gorukh. Thence the tale Comes westward o'er the peaks to India.

THE EXPLANATION

Love and Death once ceased their strife At the Tavern of Man's Life.

Called for wine, and threw -- alas! -- Each his quiver on the gra.s.s.

When the bout was o'er they found Mingled arrows strewed the ground.

Hastily they gathered then Each the loves and lives of men.

Ah, the fateful dawn deceived!

Mingled arrows each one sheaved; Death's dread armoury was stored With the shafts he most abhorred; Love's light quiver groaned beneath Venom-headed darts of Death.

Thus it was they wrought our woe At the Tavern long ago.

Tell me, do our masters know, Loosing blindly as they fly, Old men love while young men die?

THE GIFT OF THE SEA

The dead child lay in the shroud, And the widow watched beside; And her mother slept, and the Channel swept The gale in the teeth of the tide.

But the mother laughed at all.

"I have lost my man in the sea, And the child is dead. Be still," she said, "What more can ye do to me?"

The widow watched the dead, And the candle guttered low, And she tried to sing the Pa.s.sing Song That bids the poor soul go.

And "Mary take you now," she sang, "That lay against my heart."

And "Mary smooth your crib to-night,"

But she could not say "Depart."

Then came a cry from the sea, But the sea-rime blinded the gla.s.s, And "Heard ye nothing, mother?" she said, "'Tis the child that waits to pa.s.s."

And the nodding mother sighed.

"'Tis a lambing ewe in the whin, For why should the christened soul cry out That never knew of sin?"

"O feet I have held in my hand, O hands at my heart to catch, How should they know the road to go, And how should they lift the latch?"

They laid a sheet to the door, With the little quilt atop, That it might not hurt from the cold or the dirt, But the crying would not stop.

The widow lifted the latch And strained her eyes to see, And opened the door on the bitter sh.o.r.e To let the soul go free.

There was neither glimmer nor ghost, There was neither spirit nor spark, And "Heard ye nothing, mother?" she said, "'Tis crying for me in the dark."

And the nodding mother sighed: "'Tis sorrow makes ye dull; Have ye yet to learn the cry of the tern, Or the wail of the wind-blown gull?"

"The terns are blown inland, The gray gull follows the plough.

'Twas never a bird, the voice I heard, O mother, I hear it now!"

"Lie still, dear lamb, lie still; The child is pa.s.sed from harm, 'Tis the ache in your breast that broke your rest, And the feel of an empty arm."

She put her mother aside, "In Mary's name let be!

For the peace of my soul I must go," she said, And she went to the calling sea.

In the heel of the wind-bit pier, Where the twisted weed was piled, She came to the life she had missed by an hour, For she came to a little child.

She laid it into her breast, And back to her mother she came, But it would not feed and it would not heed, Though she gave it her own child's name.

And the dead child dripped on her breast, And her own in the shroud lay stark; And "G.o.d forgive us, mother," she said, "We let it die in the dark!"

EVARRA AND HIS G.o.dS

_Read here: This is the story of Evarra -- man -- Maker of G.o.ds in lands beyond the sea._ Because the city gave him of her gold, Because the caravans brought turquoises, Because his life was sheltered by the King, So that no man should maim him, none should steal, Or break his rest with babble in the streets When he was weary after toil, he made An image of his G.o.d in gold and pearl, With turquoise diadem and human eyes, A wonder in the suns.h.i.+ne, known afar, And wors.h.i.+pped by the King; but, drunk with pride, Because the city bowed to him for G.o.d, He wrote above the shrine: "_Thus G.o.ds are made, And whoso makes them otherwise shall die._"

And all the city praised him. . . . Then he died.

_Read here the story of Evarra -- man -- Maker of G.o.ds in lands beyond the sea._ Because the city had no wealth to give, Because the caravans were spoiled afar, Because his life was threatened by the King, So that all men despised him in the streets, He hewed the living rock, with sweat and tears, And reared a G.o.d against the morning-gold, A terror in the suns.h.i.+ne, seen afar, And wors.h.i.+pped by the King; but, drunk with pride, Because the city fawned to bring him back, He carved upon the plinth: "_Thus G.o.ds are made, And whoso makes them otherwise shall die._"

And all the people praised him. . . . Then he died.

_Read here the story of Evarra -- man -- Maker of G.o.ds in lands beyond the sea._ Because he lived among a simple folk, Because his village was between the hills, Because he smeared his cheeks with blood of ewes, He cut an idol from a fallen pine, Smeared blood upon its cheeks, and wedged a sh.e.l.l Above its brows for eyes, and gave it hair Of trailing moss, and plaited straw for crown.

And all the village praised him for this craft, And brought him b.u.t.ter, honey, milk, and curds.